


Noctuary

by beansproutbear



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: A lot of cursing, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Death, Demons, Dumb boys being dumb, Ghosts, M/M, Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein-centric, Minor Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager, Nightmares, Science Fiction, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Smoking, Supernatural Elements, Violence, Vomiting, mystical books, some horror elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2282085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beansproutbear/pseuds/beansproutbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirschtein has just become the keeper of an other-worldly book. He’s having strange visions and hey, is that a ghost following him around? When Marco Bodt stumbles into his new and oh so very strange life things get a little more than complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unfinished business

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [ Tumblr](http://beansproutbear.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> Special thanks to [Doctordorkface](http://doctordorkface.tumblr.com/) for the beta reading and editing help!

 

_Now in the dark world where I dwell._

_Ugly things, and surprising things, and sometimes_

_little wondrous things, spill out at me constantly._

**\- Bob Arctor**

 

 

They're everywhere.

Airports, department stores, schools, hospitals.

 _Especially_ hospitals.

Spirits. That’s right: Spirits, with a capital “s”. As in the souls of our dearly departed.

Not all of them, of course, because not every soul becomes a Spirit. Just the ones that decided to hang around after death. Maybe some stay by choice, maybe some stay because they have to.  I'm still not really sure how it all works, which is why I’m not really sure how _I_ got involved at all _._ The only thing I _do_ know is that _some_ of these Spirits are really starting to get on my nerves.  
"Dude, you can't ignore me forever."

I snuggle myself deeper into my sweatshirt, crossing my arms and trying my hardest to ignore my visitor. The bus will be here any second, I tell myself.

"I'm just going to keep on talking ‘til I get some sort of reaction out of you. You get that, right?"

Eren. My own personal poltergeist, sent from God-only-knows-where to make my life a living hell.  
     

"Go away" I hiss, just loud enough so that the old homeless man sitting on the curb behind me shoots me a disapproving look.  
     

"No way," He shrugs, "I’m not goin’ anywhere until you talk to me.”

     

“I’m talking to you right now.”

     

“You need to _listen_ to me”  
     

" _You_ _need_ to go away," I snap, a little louder than I should have. The bum stands and shakes his head disapprovingly. This is just what I need: the local down-an’-out spreading the story of Jean Kirschtein talking to himself at a bus stop. I flip my hood up so that it covers most of my face. _Any second,_ I think desperately, _the bus will be here any second._  
    

"Look, bro, you’re not getting rid of me, so you might as well talk to me," Eren presses on.  
    

  I continue to ignore him and pull out my phone. I can just play flappy bird or something until the bus arrives or he goes away. Whichever comes first.  
    

 "Listen, I have something to tell you; something _important_. If you give me five minutes, then I'll leave you alone for the remainder of your day. Promise."  
    

 I look up at him. He’s standing in front of me now, his green eyes boring into my own. His dark brown hair sits messily atop his head, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed; which, of course, was impossible, what with the whole “being dead” thing. He’s wearing a plain shirt and a pair of jeans and, as I look him up and down, I can’t help but wonder if this is the outfit he died in. Maybe I’d ask him sometime. That is, if he’s ever _not_ pissing me off. Even at this stage in our relationship, it seems unlikely. 

As I watch him, he begins to toy absentmindedly with a ring on his index finger. It’s large and silver and I notice that there’s a small inscription on the side, though it’s too small and ornate for me to read from where I’m sitting. Not that I really care to.  
     

"What d’ya say?" He persists with a grin. "Deal?"

    

I let out a deep sigh. “Yeah, man. Whatever. Deal.”

 

* * *

 

Standing outside some office building on 5th Ave, I can’t help but wonder what the _actual fuck_ I am doing with my life. I didn’t sign up for this shit. Nowhere on my apartment’s lease agreement was there a ghost clause; ‘cause you can bet your ass I never would have gone anywhere near the place if there had been. Let’s put it this way: I’ve been scared of the dark since I was 8; I avoid haunted hayrides and scary movies; I’m twenty five years old and I have nightlights adorning my home. _Nightlights_ , for fuck’s sake. That is the type of guy I am, and yet, for whatever reason, taking an apartment next to the cemetery hadn’t bothered me. The price was right (what with me being poor and all that), and that particular part of town isn’t the worst. I mean, it isn’t the best, either, but beggars can’t be choosers, right?

I pull my beanie down a bit, making sure it’s covering most of my ears before stuffing my hands back into my hoodie pockets. Eren is leaning against a street sign post, staring. I feel his eyes burning a hole into me, but I won’t look directly at him. He keeps muttering insults under his breath and I swear to God if he wasn’t already dead I’d fucking kill him.

I fiddle with my pack of cigarettes, the tips of my fingers clumsy and numb. I’m nervous, to say the least.  A cool autumn breeze rolls through the street, bringing with it the smell of hotdogs and who knows what else. There’s a vending cart at the end of the block and it takes all of my self-control not to abandon my post and make a b-line for it. In my rush to get out of the house this morning I’d forgotten to eat. I’d also forgotten to brush my teeth, but really, I’m focusing on what’s important here. My stomach is tearing itself apart by the time Eren motions for me to go inside.

This is it. I just need to do this one thing and then I can go back to my happy little ghost-free life. I take a deep breath and head towards the doors. They’re large and heavy, and I feel more than a little pathetic as I struggle to open one with just a single hand. A large man in a blue uniform sits on the other side of an ornate marble desk and he barely glances up at me as I make my way towards the elevator. This place is as ritzy as it gets, adorned in gold and marble and here I am in a hoodie and jeans. Yet this guy barely spares me a glance. I snort. Great security.

“Seventh floor,” Eren says cheerfully as we enter the elevator, or as I like to call them, hanging death traps. My stomach jumps up into my throat as we begin to move, and I reach out to hold onto something, anything. My hand meets with solid matter and I cling to it for dear life. I’m going to be sick. I’m sweating, I feel like I can’t breathe and then, I look up. I’m clasping Eren’s wrist and he looks nothing short of horrified.

Smoke begins to fill my lungs, and I just know I’m going to die. I feel like I’m burning alive from the inside out. I cough but it doesn’t seem to help. Tears are stinging at the corners of my eyes. I just want this to end, to be over and done with and before I know what’s going on, I’m suddenly fine.

Eren is on the other side of the box, head shaking, eyes wide. I had dropped to my knees at some point. Coughing again, I stand, and the elevator dings. “What the fuck….” I manage to whisper as the doors slide open.

A tall man with a beard gives me a questioning look as he shuffles in. I push past him and resolve to take the stairs from now on. To my left is a set of large windows, and Eren’s pacing back and forth in front of them. “This is bad…” he’s saying, “Really bad.”

My hands are still shaking and I have a serious headache brewing somewhere behind my eyes. I reach up and scrub at my face. “What the fuck was that?” is all I can manage. I lean against the wall and sink down to the floor. My stomach turns watching Eren’s worried face as he paces. Something isn’t right.

“Eren…” My words are soft and rough at the same time, my throat raw.

His head snaps up at the mention of his name. “I wasn’t supposed to touch you,” he says finally. His eyes are wild and unfixed. “W-we weren’t supposed to – Fuck!”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Let’s just…Let’s do what we came here to do, okay?” I cough again, and this time I feel like I’m going to retch. There’s a steel, silver trashcan back at the elevator doors and I manage to scramble to my feet and make it there just in time. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t get breakfast.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and when I look up, Eren’s looking at me apologetically.  “You good?”

“Do I fuckin’ look good?” I shoot back, head hanging into the can. I’m holding onto the rim for dear life, hoping I won’t be sick again. He nods, ignoring my attitude. “We need to go, can’t stay here.”

I sigh, standing up straight. A napkin or something would be fucking great right now. I close my eyes for a few seconds and when I do, all I see is black. For once the darkness is comforting. Pulling a piece of paper from my pocket I return to the world, giving it a once over.

“Room 708. Carla Jaeger” it reads.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a lot of crying and snot and more crying. Fortunately for me, I wasn’t the one doing any of it. When Eren died, he left behind his mother, father, and step sister. This was his unfinished business, and I was helping him on the way to moving on. Which meant that, as soon as he got his shit together, I’d finally be able to have some peace and quiet. I was just as eager as he was to get on with it.

I stood in that office rattling off a bunch of crap Eren had told me to say. He’d left a letter under the shoe box in his closet and he needed her to know where to find it. In the end, she thanked me, offering to give me money and anything else I might need. I declined, playing it off as though I knew the kid before he’d died, as if I was one of his friends or some shit. There were so many tears and I just couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

I take the stairs on my way down, and my counterpart floats beside me the entire time. “Shouldn’t you be gone?” I ask, as we make our way onto the 4th floor’s platform. “Like, didn’t we take care of your business?”

“No, I think…“ He shakes his head slowly. “I messed up, Jean.”

By the time we reach the ground floor I’ve got no more information than I did before, but I do know that I’m going to attack that food cart like a lioness taking down an antelope. The security guard grunts a goodbye on my way out, and I just wave. The sun had tucked itself away somewhere behind thick dark clouds, and the smell in the air suggests rain is on the horizon. I book it towards the vendor, mouth watering at the delicious scents.

There’s a small line. I take my place and patiently wait my turn. I get everything- and when I say everything, I mean _everything-_ on this hot dog.  God himself could not have constructed a thing more beautiful than what I held in my hands: this meat smothered in every condiment known to man. I shove my change back into my pocket and turn to leave.

You know how, in movies, when something terrible’s about to happen, everything starts to move in slow motion? Well, as I turn to leave, my shoulder is struck by what feels like a brick, and unfortunately for me, it’s the arm that holds my glorious lunch. It goes flying, I go flying, and the pavement rushes to meet us, skinning my palms and scattering the remnants of my perfect meal.

I sit in a state of disbelief and confusion, surrounded by what, only moments ago, could have been considered the Mona Lisa of afternoon meals; Now a shattered mess, comparable to an extraordinarily gruesome car accident.

I want to cry. Honest to God I have never wanted to cry more in my entire life than I do in this moment, that is, until I look up. A tall freckled man with a worried frown is peering down at me, offering me his hand. “I’m so sorry,” he says, “Are you okay?”

More embarrassed than anything, I take his hand and he pulls me up. The headache that was forming explodes behind my eyes and I can’t see anything, and then all at once I see everything. I see this man’s whole life; his daily routine, where he lives.  I watch as he talks with friends, wide beautiful smile lighting up his face. I see his graduation and his tenth birthday where his parents got him a clown, and he was scared shitless. I watch as he makes breakfast for a lover whose face I can’t see, and then I see an accident. I see thick, red blood, oh fuck there’s so much blood… and Eren…and then my sight comes back. I’m in reality again and I can barely stand. The muscles in my extremities are shaking and I just know I’m gonna be sick again. I pull away, hands moving directly to my stomach.

         “T-thanks,” I manage to mumble before taking off towards the bus stop. I get sick on the sidewalk, and it’s extra gross because I literally haven’t eaten in two days.

         I hope he doesn’t follow me, but something in the back of my mind tells me that as soon as I stand upright, he’s gonna be there.

And I’m right.

         

* * *

 

 

     I got sick on his shoes. Twice. He was kind enough to offer me a ride home, but I declined. He gave me his phone number and asked that I checked in with him later in the evening or tomorrow. He was worried, genuinely and wholeheartedly worried about a complete stranger. I hated him. Except, not really.  I fall into my couch that night with nothing on my mind but his face. Eren tries talking to me, but I’m in a fog, a daze even. He didn’t matter; nothing mattered except the man from the sidewalk: Marco.

 

   


	2. The bad side of town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We do not remember days, we remember moments.”  
>  — Cesare Pavese

 

Eren wakes me up the next morning by turning my stereo on full blast. I’m so startled that I roll right off the couch and hit my nose on the coffee table. In spite of the searing pain that is now burning a hole from the tip of my nose to my two-toned hairline, I jump to my feet and throw myself at him. We hit the floor and I’m nearly sure I get a few good punches in before he disappears.

“Cheater!” I yell pointlessly, rubbing the spot on my jaw where his fist had collided only moments ago. When I pull my hand away I realize all too quickly that there is a thick, hot substance covering my hands. Groaning, I head off to the bathroom where I realize my nose is pouring blood, like some kind of sick water-fountain.

It takes two packs of ice and almost an hour before it’s totally stopped. I probably should have gone to the hospital, but let’s be real. I can barely afford my rent; let’s fucking forget about healthcare. Once I’ve stopped the Nile River from coming out of my face I break out my phone with every intent of calling Marco right then and there.

Six hours, a couple beers, and a pack of cigarettes later and I still haven’t so much as dialed the numbers, but I think I’m finally ready. It rings a few times before he picks it up, and honestly all I want to do is hang up and throw my phone across the room. But when he answers, his voice is so smooth and even and all he’s done is say hello and I’m melting.

“U-uh… hey,” I mumble into the receiver. “It’s, uh… it’s Jean. You know… from the other day?” _I’m the idiot who barfed on your sneakers_.

“So, you ruined my shoes.” He laughs, not skirting around the issue, “I think that means you owe me dinner.”

I sigh, running my hand through my hair. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly, despite the lightness of his tone. “I can get you a new pair, maybe…“ I flop down on my couch and groan, “I-I mean I don’t have the money right now but maybe in a couple weeks I could-“

“Relax, Jean, relax.” His voice instantly calms me, and though I do feel like a tremendous jackass- because, not only did I spew on his shoes, but I totally _ruined_ them on top of it- I can’t help but listen to his directions.  “It’s no big deal. How about you just buy me a drink or something and we call it even?”

“I dunno, d’ya trust me not to lose my lunch on ya again?” I worry for a second that my attempt at being funny might not actually be so funny, and recoil a bit as he begins to laugh.

“I think I can give you a shot.” He says, and I relax, “So how’s tonight?”

I groan. My stomach still isn’t 100% and man, I look like a truck hit me. Just as I’m about to decline, just as I’m about to say no, I have a flashback to yesterday. I see him lying in a large bed, white sheets covering his bottom half, chest bare- a huge, beautiful smile on his face. He’s laughing and joking and before I know it there’s another man beside him; On top of him. They’re tangled in the sheets, slick with sweat and the smaller one is calling out Marcos name. Even though I can’t see his lovers face, I fucking hate him. I’m forced to see snippets of their most private moments and fucking hell am I both enraged and turned on.

“Jean, hello,” the voice snaps me back to reality, “Earth to Jean.”

“Sorry,” I rasp out, “Sorry, bad connection. Yeah. Tonight. That’s fine.”

Now I know what you’re thinking: “Jean, I didn’t know you were into guys!” Well, guess what? I’m not. Or at least, that’s what I’m telling myself as I try my best to get rid of this semi-hard-on I’m sporting.

He keeps me on the phone for four hours- _four fucking hours_ \- before he decides he needs to go and get some food. He tells me a lot of things I didn’t know about him, but also a lot that I do already. It’s kinda awkward to pretend I don’t know about his fear of clowns or that he graduated from Trost University with a bachelors in medicine, but I manage. If anything, it makes it easier to talk to him because now I have some conversation topics.

A local bar and a few beers hardly sounded like a bad idea, anyways. I know he doesn’t live far, but I make sure the place across the street from my house is okay. When I’m drinking I like to be within stumbling distance of home at all times and, seeing as I’ve already had a few, that’s probably a good idea at this point.

When we hang up I set off to the bathroom in an effort to shower off any sick that might still be there from our previous encounter, seeing as I never bothered to clean myself up the night before. I’m just putting shampoo in my hair when I hear someone clear their throat.

     “You take long ass showers,” Eren sighs.

     I peek out from behind the curtain, hair pulled up into a tiny soap-held mohawk to see him sitting on my toilet seat. “How about you get the fuck out of my house,” is all I say before ducking my head back in.

“I would, but when you grabbed my wrist yesterday….” There’s a long, almost painful silence before he speaks again. “How’s your hand, Jean?”

I roll my eyes but look down at my hands all the same. They’re covered in soap, white weightless suds. I rinse them and quickly realize that I seem to have gotten some form or marker or pen splattered on the edge of my right hand, directly where my palm meets my wrist. Grabbing a sponge, I begin to scrub at it, but the splotch refuses to even lighten in color.

I fling open the shower curtain, not caring if I flash the shit out of Eren. “What the fuck is this shit?” I yell, hand waving in his face.

He winces, “You wanna finish your shower, or-?”

“I’ll finish when you fuckin explain this!” It’s something bad, I just know it is. I mean, why would he have brought it up if it wasn’t? The scent of the shampoo I have in my hair is starting to get to me, but I ignore it in favor of a hopefully good explanation.

He looks away, hands folding neatly into his lap. “We need to see someone…” he mumbles. “I-I’m not sure about anything anymore, Jean…”

I go to run my hands through my hair, forgetting that it’s still covered in soap and do nothing but successfully scorch my eyes with the hair care suds. Eren laughs, but I can tell it’s not his usual carefree one.

As I finish my shower, images of Marco flood back to me. They’re not like the ones from earlier, though; they’re dark and scary, like something straight out of a nightmare, and no matter what I do I can’t picture him _not_ covered in blood.

I’m confused and tired of feeling like I’m going to toss my cookies every five minutes, so when I emerge from the bathroom, fully clothed this time, all I want to do is go and get whatever it is Eren has in store for me over with. 

We take the subway to the really bad side of town. I’ve only been here a handful of times and not once was it a pleasant experience. The spot at the bottom of my palm is throbbing a bit as we make our way down into an abandoned neighborhood. There’s nothing here but old factories and houses that no one has lived in in upwards of 10 years, and I am honest-to-god creeped the fuck out.

Not that I should be. I mean for Christ’s sake, I’m the one taking a walk in the park with Casper the fucking ghost over here. 

We arrive at a small house with wood paneling and blue shutters. It looks highly out of place between two old, brick factories. The lawn is overgrown and burnt to a crisp, the mailbox full to the brim with letters and other parchment and just to top it all off it’s surrounded by a pretty little white picket fence. Or rather, what I’d assume was a pretty little white picket fence at some point in time. White chipped paint and termite infested wood is all that’s left. I shudder as we pass by the dilapidated front gate and head up the walk.

The front door is boarded up, so I’m not really sure why I get confused when Eren nods his head and starts off around the side, but I do. “Who lives here?” I find myself asking, hands digging deeper into my pockets.

“A guy.”

I blow a huff of air out of my mouth and opt not to respond to that. Something about this kid pisses me off something fierce, and I find myself constantly resisting the urge to strangle him. Not that it would do much, but I’m sure it’d make _me_ feel better.

When we reach the back door, it’s already open. I follow Eren into a small kitchen, eyes wide.  It smells like incense and brandy; warm, inviting and totally opposite from the exterior. I guess what they say is true, you can’t judge a book by its cover. 

Eren makes a place for himself atop the counter, right between a toaster and the refrigerator, and I take that as my cue to sit as well. There’s a small set of table and chairs in the center of the room. It’s old and everything looks to be carved straight out of some dark wood. I take a seat in one of the chairs and am pleasantly surprised by the comfort level it brings.

Before I can ask my partner what the fuck is going on, a very tall person with their hair pulled back into a pony tail bursts into the room. They’re wearing a red robe and from what I can tell, not much else.

“Eren, Jean, you made it!” They yell, before wrapping their arms tightly around my ghostly counterpart. I’m shocked, to say the least. My brain is firing off all sorts of things, but my lips and vocal chords are refusing to cooperate.

“Yeah, brought him jus’ like I said I would,” Eren grins against the person’s chest.

“Oh, but you must think me rude!” They exclaim, whipping around to face me. I’m too stunned to do anything other than stare. “I’m Hanji!” Another exclamation and, before I know what’s happening, they’ve pulled me out of my chair and onto my feet in the biggest, most chest-crushing bear hug I have ever had the displeasure of experiencing.

By the time they finally let me go, I slump back into my seat, seeing stars. One more second like that and I just might have blacked the hell out. “Y-you…” Closing my eyes, I shake my head. “You can see him?” I point an accusatory finger at Eren, who, when I open my eyes, I notice is grinning like an idiot.

“I wouldn’t be a very good medium if I couldn’t see ghosts, now would I, Jean boy!”

“Wait, fucking hold the fuck right up,” I spit, standing again, “You mean to tell me you can _see_ this little shit, and _I’m_ the one he chose to bother?”

“Yep!”

“I’m gonna fucking kill you again, Eren,” I growl pushing past my newest acquaintance. I’m out for blood, or whatever it is that happens to the already dead when you kill them, and I feel as though nothing will be able to stop me when, in fact, something does. 

Something hard and flat hits me in the gut, causing me to stumble backwards and fight for air.

“Fucking disgusting,” I hear a male voice, cold and unconcerned. “Sit back down at the table and shut the fuck up, runt.”

I obey, shuffling back into my self-assigned seat, trying to get my breathing back under control.  My hands are grasping the item that has just been thrust into my core as though it’s some sort of flotation device that I need to hold onto for dear life.

“Eren needed you because we do not do foot work,” He says, lighting a cigarette. I look up, eyes semi-glazed over from the sheer amount of _what the fuck_ in the room at this point. My assailant is short and small but looks like he could tip over a house if need be. He goes on to introduce himself as Levi, another medium.

I sit and listen to him talk and smoke, all the while clasping this book to my chest.

“Do you know what that is?” He asks, pointing to the item in question with his cigarette.

“Oh- uh,” I look down. It’s a small, brown, leather book, held shut by a thin leather strap that’s been wrapped around it a few times. It had felt so much bigger before my eyes had been drawn to it. “It’s a book.”

He snorts. “’It’s a book’ is right. And now it’s yours.”

“I don’t want it.” The response is automatic and short. Whatever was going on here, I wanted no more part of it. I’d helped Eren finish his worldy business; I’m supposed to be done. Gone. Free as a fuckin’ bird.

“Too late. It’s chosen you.” It seems to shiver in my hands a little as Levi says those words. I glance down at it and my palm throbs again.  “Let me see your hand,” he says, extinguishing his butt in a glass ashtray.

I extend my good one without thinking, and the look he gives me is of murderous intent. “The other one you dumb fuck.” I bite back an insult and quickly extend my right hand instead. The small black blotch is now about the size of a quarter.

He looks it over through squinting eyes before motioning for me to take it back. He takes out another cigarette, and places it between his lips, and that’s when I know.

I’m fucked.

 


	3. Sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Being sick feels like you're wearing someone else's glasses”  
> ― Megan Boyle

 

So it turns out I’ve got this really nasty infection, and not the kind you can treat with antibiotics.

It’s what Levi described as “ghost sickness.” Actually, he had a real fancy name for it, in Latin and everything, but I guess that’s the layman’s translation. It’s like a bacterial infection sent over from the world of the undead to make my life on Earth a living hell.

He told me that everything I needed to know would be in that little book he’d thrown at me and God, do I fucking hope so, because honestly I’m a little scared.

Of course, it’s my own fault. Or at least, that’s what I was told a couple thousand times before Eren and I finally managed to get out of that place. However, I disagree.  See, no one told me I could even touch my ghostly friend, and there was never any mention of that fact that I _shouldn’t._

As far as I’m concerned, _I’m_ the innocent one in all of this. Hell, I’m the fuckin’ Virgin Mary in comparison to these guys.

I sigh, stuffing my hands into my hoodie pockets. It had gotten dark while we were talking, and to be completely honest, I’d lost track of time. So much so that when I glance down at my watch I realize it’s well past eight.

Which wouldn’t be a big deal, except that I’m about half an hour late to drinks with Marco.

To head off the obvious question, let me explain: I hate cell phones. I hate everything about them. Especially the part where you have to pick them up and talk to people; that’s gotta be the worst. So I left mine at home, right where I’d set it down after talking to Mr. Handsome, on my coffee table.

Meaning at this point he probably thinks I’ve stood him up, which I _haven’t_.

At least not yet. I mean, I’m on my way, I just have no way of letting _him_ know that.

As I trot back toward the subway station, I can’t help but think back to how I got into this mess in the first place.

A new apartment, a new start, that’s what I’d thought. Boy was I surprised at just how _new_ it all was.

Eren didn’t make contact immediately and, truthfully, I didn’t know he was dead for almost a month. He’d followed me to and from the bus stop, the subway station, the pizza place; everywhere I went, he was never far behind.

Gotta tell ya, I thought he was just some punk kid from my building tryin’ to mess with me. 

It wasn’t until one night I’d come home late and found him going through my mail that I realized something funny was going on. Partly because I’d locked the door when I left, but mostly because he was hovering over my kitchen table three or four feet off the ground. 

I’d like to say that I handled the whole thing with courage and poise, but really I just screamed a lot.

Like you wouldn’t.

Suddenly seeing a spirit can be a traumatic experience, okay? At first I thought I’d lost it.

 Finally all my drinking and smoking had caught up to me; probably a brain tumor. I heard they caused hallucinations. It was a logical assumption at the time, but after a handful of doctors’ appointments and more money than I could really afford, I decided maybe I wasn’t so crazy after all.

It’s been almost six months since the little shit came to me. Why I can see him is beyond me, but hey, at least it’s just him, right? Things could always be worse.

 

I make it onto the train just as it’s about to leave the station. There’s only standing room, which is fine by me, ‘cause I plan on booking it out of there as fast as I can once we reach my stop.

The overhead intercom announces Hartford Street and I get ready. It’s now nearing an hour after our designated meeting time, and I’m feeling more and more like an ass by the second.

The stairs are crowded and congested with Friday night’s traffic. I manage to make it through and up to the main street, crisp night air smacking me in the face as I turn to face the bar. It’s not fifty yards from me, and I think I see Marco outside. I take off in his direction, only to realize he’s trying to hail a cab.

By the time I reach him I’m out of breath. Guess I really _do_ need to quit smoking. “Marco!” I say, skidding to a halt, “Hey, ‘m sorry, I…“ I lean forward, hands grasping my knees. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

He sighs, “About an hour late, actually.” He’s wearing a white button up with black slacks. His coat is draped over one arm, which he’s holding against his chest. He still hasn’t put down the hand he’s using to call a cab, and I know he’s upset.

“Please,” I gasp, my lungs still fighting me. “I’m sorry, I can explain.”

“I tried calling you.” He lowers his arm just a little, eyeing me warily.

“Phone’s at home,” I say, standing erect.

He rolls his eyes but I can see a small smile creeping its way onto his face. He’s put his arm completely down now, but it’s too late. A cab has pulled up in front of us, waiting for him to get in.

Without thinking I reach out to touch his forearm.

There’s a pressure behind my eyes, and before I can pull my hand away, it’s exploded, just like it had yesterday. There’s darkness and then a flash of red light.  I feel as though I should be doing something, anything, but I can’t move.

I watch as Marco gets into the cab and directs the driver as to where to go. The cabbie is an overweight man with a bad moustache and no sense of fashion. He peels out from the curb, almost hitting another car in the process, but they don’t actually get into an accident until the intersection.

The driver wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and neither was Marco. Paramedics converse in low whispers. Neither of them would make it.

When I snap back to Marco, he’s staring at me, hand on my shoulder.

“Sorry,” I mumble, eyes working their way back to his face. His brown eyes are wide in concern, his hand firm and warm on my shoulder. I try to give him a reassuring smile, but I’m not sure I manage it. _No big deal, except that I just saw you cut up like a Christmas ham._ “Sorry, I just thought I saw someone I knew…”

He doesn’t seem to buy it, but he nods anyway. He thinks I’m nuts. I can tell from the look he’s giving me. Then again, sometimes _I_ think I’m nuts. He starts again, “Well, I better go-“

“No wait!” Without thinking, I reach out and grip his arm again, but thankfully nothing happens this time. “Jus’ come in and have a couple drinks. I promise I got a good excuse.” I don’t, but he doesn’t know that.

He sighs, small smile returning. “Alright, alright.” Pulling away from me he leans down and motions for the driver to roll down the passenger window. Marco explains that he no longer needs a ride, and in a fit of rage the man peels out, almost hitting another car in the process.

He must be doing upwards of sixty when he ignores the red light at the intersection. A semi-truck plows into him. We just stand there and watch in shock for a few moments, and before I know what’s going on Marco has 911 on the phone.

“Hold this,” he says handing me his jacket, “I’ll be right back.” He takes off towards the accident and I’m left standing in his wake, dumbfounded.

My breath hitches in the back of my throat and my heart begins to race. The world around me is melting and I’m becoming more and more disentangled from reality.

 Stumbling backwards, I hit the rough brick that is the bar’s exterior, and slide down onto my ass.

I clutch my chest, pressure and pain melding together to make the most uncomfortable sensation I have ever had the displeasure of enduring. It feels like hours before I come back to reality, gasping for breath.

I’d never had a panic attack before this, but I can tell you this much: I hope to never have one again.

As I sit, doubled over, I replay the crash over and over again in my mind.  It’s almost forty-five minutes before Marco returns, and I’m still sat on the ground, his jacket in hand.

 I’m exhausted.

“What happened?” I ask, pulling myself to my feet. My legs wobble a bit beneath me. I need food.

“Let’s go inside,” He says, a small, warm smile on his face. He reaches a hand out towards me and I stuff his coat into it. “Thanks,” he chuckles.

I’m so dazed that I almost don’t see all the blood on his once bleach-white shirt or the large gash on his left forearm. He’d run off towards an accident without thinking twice, and what did I do? Fall apart against one of Trost’s hole-in-the-wall bars.

I follow him inside the bar and we take a seat at a small booth in a back corner. He’s pale and frazzled, his hair messy and matted in certain places (with what, I won’t ask). We order drinks, and he tells me about what happened.

The cab had caught fire, and Marco had managed to pull the driver out just in time. He’d cut his arm on some broken glass, and the blood was all his own, he’d assured me.

Not that I was worried until he brought it up, but y’know.

Back in his hometown he’d been a paramedic. Volunteer, but still, he’d known what to do. He managed to remove the man from the car and preform basic CPR until Trost’s finest arrived. They gave him some antiseptic for his arm, but the medics said he’d need to treat it more thoroughly.

He sips his beer, peering over at me. “So, I guess your excuse doesn’t really matter anymore, huh?”

I sigh. “Yeah, guess not.” My right hand moves up to rub the back of my head. There’s a small bump. I must have hit it on the wall during my panic attack.

He takes another swig and then sets his mug down onto the table. He has a thick beer-foam moustache and I can’t help but laugh a little. “What, what is it?” he asks, eyes widening in confusion.

“Nothing,” I grin, “Though I can’t say you look good with facial hair.”

He runs two fingers along his upper lip, wiping away some of the foam. He laughs and grabs a napkin to wipe the rest of it away. “

He goes on to tell me about work- he’s a physician’s assistant- and his apartment, and how he’d like a dog. I’m captivated by him. I hang on every word he says, practically begging for more. But I try not to seem too desperate; I mean, I’ve just met the guy for Christ’s sake.

 I drink more than I probably should on an empty stomach and by the time he’s done telling me about how he’d gotten his foot stuck in his garbage pail this morning; I’m already feeling a little light-headed.

The kitchen had closed hours ago, and aside from going home, I didn’t have much of a chance of getting something to eat. “You alright, Jean?” He asks, and I swear to god his perfect eyes twinkle a little.

“’M good,” I slur the words a bit, “Jus’ hungry, yanno?”

He nods, chuckling a little. “Alright, why don’t we get outta here?” He slaps a few bills on the table and we take off. I don’t even try to fight him about paying, though in hindsight I probably should have.

My legs are working, I know they are because I’m moving, but I feel like I’m floating. We leave the bar and somehow manage to make it back to my apartment.

Stumbling distance, I tell you. These are rules to live by.

“It ain’t much,” I say pushing the door open with a bit too much force. I find I’m holding onto it for balance as he passes me into the place. I shut and lock it behind me. I barely notice Eren, who’s sat in the corner on a recliner.

“Oh, Jean’s brought home a _da-ate,”_ he croons, and automatically I stick my tongue out at him.

Very adult.

 It takes a couple seconds for my brain to catch up and realize that Marco can’t see him as well. Lucky for me he’s inspecting a small, dying cactus on my counter. Mom had given it to me as a housewarming gift, and to be completely honest, I didn’t pay it much attention. Eren seems to disappear as I place the book Levi had given me down next to it.

“It’s a nice place,” Marco beams, turning to face me now. I have a sloppy, permanent, booze-induced grin plastered across my face. 

“Ya think so?” The place is fairly plain as far as I’m concerned. I have a couch and a bed, a small dresser and a television. The walls bear no pictures or decorations, and my kitchen is barely used. I guess it isn’t so bad for a studio apartment, though.

He nods eagerly and moves to sit on the couch. I follow him, but even in my inebriated state, I know to sit all the way at the other end of the sofa. I don’t trust myself when I’m like this. I’ve been known to get a bit … _hands-y_.

He laughs when he notices the distance between us. “Didn’t you say you had a bandage for my arm somewhere?” He asks, scooting closer. My eyes don’t leave his face. His pearly white teeth are glistening in the artificial light of my apartment, and as he moves a little closer again I panic.

I’m on my feet before I know what’s happening, stumbling off towards my bathroom. “It’s in here,” I yell once I reach my destination.

_What does he think he’s doing, being all perfect and charming and handsome? With that stupid freckled face and gorgeous smile; who does he think he is?_

Opening the medicine cabinet, my drunken fingers fumble with various bottles and packages, causing a bunch of them to fall into the sink.  I let out a long sigh, trying to calm my frayed nerves. What I’m nervous about is up for interpretation, though I do feel it might have something to do with my house guest; and no, I’m not talking about Eren.

I jump a little as two arms reach around either side of me. Marco is standing behind me, picking up the fallen bottles. I stiffen as he chuckles a little, pressing his chest into my back in order to reach the shelves better.  I can smell him, and _man_ is it distracting.

His scent is warm, and inexplicable. Like tea and flowers all mixed with the fresh scent of the autumn air. All I want to do is bask in it. But instead I clear my throat, grab the bandages and duck out from under one of his arms.

I wait for him to return to the couch, amused grin on his face. He holds his arm out, kneeling in front of me.

“You’ll want to use the bacitracin first,” he instructs gently. I grab the bottle and smear a thick layer on his cut. He winces a bit, and I wonder just how deep it really is. “Just wrap that around now,” he says, pointing to the wad of bandages with his good hand, “and then use the tape to keep it in place.”

Why he’s letting a drunk guy do this is beyond me, but I listen, trying my best to please him. It doesn’t look half bad by the time I’m done. It will definitely do until he can get to a doctor tomorrow.

We move to the kitchen in search of food, and I’m so, so careful to keep my distance. I don’t want to though, and that’s the part that’s concerning me. I want to get close enough to smell him again.

Which sounds way creepier than it actually is, okay?

As we sit and eat our frozen pizza in silence, I can’t help but feel like I’m not hungry anymore. I stuff down two pieces and call it a night. Odd for someone who hasn’t eaten in two days, but I push the thought to the back of my mind.

“It’s kinda late…” I say after a while, and Marco nods in agreement. “This couch,” I say motioning to the item in question, “‘s pretty comfy if you’re interested?”

He grins and thanks me, explaining that he really doesn’t think he can find a cab at this hour anyways. My bed is directly across from it, the only obstacle being the television.

I get him a clean shirt and some shorts from my drawer, and he goes into the bathroom to shower and change.

When he emerges, I’m already in bed. I’ve got on a pair of boxers and an old shirt, but only because I don’t think he’d take too kindly to me sleeping naked. I’ve set the couch up as best I could in my state, and I’m sure he will be comfortable.

The shirt I gave him is too small by at least a size. His huge arms and chest are stretching the fabric tightly against his muscles, and when I look him up and down the thoughts I have go straight to my dick. I quickly grab a pillow and place it over my lap, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

“It’s kinda tight,” he laughs, pointing at his chest. I’m trying to unglue my eyes from him as he takes a step towards my bed, “Thanks Jean.”

I look away, quickly now. My tongue is cleaving to the roof of my mouth. “Uh, yeah. N-no problem.”

He sighs, light and airy. “Okay then. Goodnight, Jean.”

“Yeah… g’night, Marco.”


	4. Waking nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Strange, I thought, how you can be living your dreams and your nightmares at the very same time.”   
>  ― Ransom Riggs

As my head hits the pillow, I know I’m tired- exhausted, even- but I can’t seem to sleep. The soft glow of streetlights pour in beneath my shitty second-hand curtains and Marco lets out a content sigh from the couch. A clock in the kitchen _ticks, ticks, ticks_ , and I close my eyes. I try to concentrate on my own breathing, deep and exaggerated, and then on the sounds of the city traffic buzzing continuously beneath my apartment.

My head feels fuzzy as I sit up in bed. I don’t feel my eyes open; there is no sensation when my feet hit the floor; everything around me is passing in a blur. The cracks in the walls seemingly open up and whisper things, grisly, unfathomable things to the darkest, drabbest corners of the room.

I find my way from my bed and over to the counter where the book sits, just as I’d left it. I’m still moving in a fog where my thoughts and actions don’t seem to be my own.

Hairs on the back of my neck prick up as I reach a hand forward at a painfully slow pace. Out of the corner of my right eye I swear I see something dark and spindly coming up behind me. My whole body freezes, and I quickly retract my arm.

I’m more aware of my surroundings now, as the haze slowly dissipates from my view. I feel my bare feet flat against the cold wooden floors, and my legs and arms prickling back to life, now my own again.

 The darkness winds up in front of me, pitch and fog-like, reaching out to embrace me with its spindly and gangling appendages.  I feel like I shouldn’t breath, shouldn’t move for fear that whatever it is just might try to take me the fuck with it, but something tells me to grab the book. _Grab the book before the shadows do._

Without thinking, I leap forward. My chest tightens and I swear to God I can practically feel my blood run cold as my frigid digits wrap tightly around the leather, pulling it closely to my chest.

Eren stands just beyond the counter, eyes wide, black and fixated on the ceiling. His face is expressionless, illuminated only by the small nightlight I have plugged into the wall beside him, which unfortunately for me gives an extra creep factor to the entire scenario.

 Through his gaping mouth a black, mud-like goop is pouring out and _man_ , does it ever smell.

Thick and oozing, it has the odor of hot, decaying trash.

I gag from the putrid scent, bringing a hand up to cover my mouth. In my frazzled state all I can do is stumble backwards, taking in the sight.

The gunk is bubbling up and spilling out all over Eren’s shirt, caking itself on and I swear, he seems…empty. Like that’s not really him at all, but rather the shell of whatever he _was._

“Bring him to us,” a small, scratchy voice beckons in the distance. I cringe. “Engulf him, devour it. Bring us what we want.”

My hands seem to move on their own as I pry the book away from my chest and begin to unravel it from its bindings. The words Levi had spoken just before we’d left his home resound in my ears. “Everything you need is in the book.”

Hopefully he’s right.

The first few pages are blank, and I’m panicking because my ghostly friend’s eyes have now joined his mouth in expelling black, smelly slime.

“Hurry with you,” the voice hisses again, “Bite, bite, crunch, crunch. Bones and flesh are ours to munch.” The shrill, eerie voice echoes throughout the room as the tar-like substance starts to drip onto my floors with a loud plop.

There are a million directions and warnings in that book and I’m practically kicking myself for not opening this sooner. Whatever’s happening to Eren isn’t all that uncommon, as it turns out, but it also isn’t good. The floor is now covered in his expulsion, and it’s seeping towards me at a slow but steady pace.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter, flipping another couple of pages. I back up until I hit the couch, and Marco gives out a loud cry. I’ve woken him, and I can only imagine what this must look like.

Though my eyes don’t leave the pages of the book, scanning for something, anything that might help us. I hear Marco hit the floor and scramble quickly to his feet. “J-Jean…” he whispers, voice shaking. I want to turn around, I want to look at him, tell him that everything’s going to be alright, but I just can’t.

I flip and flip pages until I come to a drawing displaying something that looks an awful lot like what’s happening in my kitchen.  There are instructions, and as crazy as they sound I comply, jumping over my couch to find the nearest sterling silver thing I can think of.

My eyes find Marco for only a second, and he’s pale white, but I can’t stop to help him because if I pause right now, even for a second, God only knows what’s going to happen to us.

I dig through my bedside drawer for my class ring, which in all honesty is probably the only silver thing I own _._

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. I can’t find it.

I can tell without even looking that things are getting worse by the loud squeak Marco has just emitted. _It has to be here somewhere,_ I think, tossing papers and small objects all over the floor without a second thought.

The ring sits on an old pack of bubble gum in the very back of the drawer, covered in a thick layer of dust and fuck knows what else. I don’t bother to clean it off as I pull it from its unsanitary spot, and something tells me a little dust is going to be the least of Eren’s problems tonight.

 Glancing back down at the book, I read and whisper words I don’t understand with the ring pressed tightly to my lips. It feels hot between my thumb and forefinger, and I know it’s ready to do the job I’d meant for it to do.

I race back to the kitchen, meeting hot, thick sludge on the way. It pools around my feet and clings to me. Fighting against its pull, I press on towards Eren. I feel as though I’m trudging through swamp-like mud, my legs being sucked back in almost as soon as I manage to pull them out.

By the time I reach him I’m knee-deep in goop. Ring in hand, I grab his shoulders and thrust the small silver object as far into his mouth as I can. I retract my hand, praying to whatever God will listen that this works- that I don’t die tonight. The muck is starting to climb its way up my back, tearing and pulling at my skin.

I wait and wait, white-hot pain beyond anything I’ve ever felt ripping through my posterior, when finally, Eren coughs and gags. He’s on his hands and knees, the black slime now receding from both myself and him. It slithers away, back into the corners and the darkest crevices of the room. I drop to my knees as well, panting.

“Fuck,” I manage as I crawl towards him, “Fuck are you- Ah, fuck…” My mind snaps back to Marco, who’s standing on the couch, eyes wide.

“W-what was that?” He squeaks, clearly trembling.

“I-I don’t-“ I shake my head. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes, and no matter how hard I will myself not to cry, they begin to flow freely down my cheeks.

Before I know what’s going on, Marco’s pulled me up tightly against his chest. He’s patting my hair, and I instinctively wrap my arms around him. I’m sobbing like a baby when he pulls back a bit. “I-I don’t know what’s happening to me,” I mutter into his shirt. I feel him nod, but he doesn’t say anything. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, allowing my forehead to touch his shoulder. His hands move to my lower back and he begins rubbing in small, comforting circles.

 “I hate,” gasped Eren, “To break up this beautiful encounter, but I just almost died- _again_!”

Realization hits me like a bag of bricks and I reluctantly pull away from Marco. Eren stands just a few feet in front of us, breathing like he’s just run a marathon. My eyes search him for any sort of indication that he might start spurting other-worldly goop from his orifices again, but everything seems to be normal.

 

“Eren…”I rasp, hands moving up to wipe away salty residue, “Eren are you-..?”

“I-I’m okay. I think I’m okay,” he shrugs, “Are you-?”

“Just freaked out.”

He nods, folding his arms neatly against his chest, and finally points at Marco, “Can you see me?”

I glance back at him and take his hand. He nods yes in response. Eren sighs. I squeeze my eyes shut. This is definitely not how I saw this night going.

A long time passes before any one of us so much as makes a sound. Marco’s the one who speaks up first. “So, what now?” he asks, voice stronger and more assertive then before.

I shrug, eyes locked on the floor. “We get answers.”

 

 

* * *

 

Levis sitting at the kitchen table, cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other, when Eren and I barge in the next morning. Marco had called out of work, on account of a “family issue.” The doctor he works for was very understanding, and told him to stay out as long as he needs to, but Marco assured him he’d be back and ready for work tomorrow morning. He’d gone home though, under the condition that I promised to come over later and explain everything.

Which I would. I owed him that much at least.

“You’re a bunch of fucking morons,” Levi sighs, extinguishing his cigarette into a small glass ashtray. I stand with my back against the fridge, hands buried deep in my pockets. “You especially,” he mumbles, pointing to me.

“Now wait just a god damn-“

“Don’t get all huffy with me, kid.” He snaps, giving me a look that says, ‘don’t start’ “You’re the worst of the two. Did you even flip through the Noctuary before the incident?”

“The what?“

“Noctuary, you fucking dumbass.” His words are harsh, but he delivers them in such a calm, cool manner that I’m only moderately offended “The book I gave you.”

“No.” I duck my head sheepishly. There’s no point in arguing with him, that much is painfully clear.

“Are you illiterate, Jean?”

“No.”

“Dyslexic?”

“Levi-“

“Do you have any sort of impairment that might hinder your from being able to pick up that god damn book and read a couple of pages?”

“What the fuck are you-?”

“Come back here when you’re done with what _it_ wants you to see. I am no help to you unless you know what the fuck it is _you’re_ doing.” He stands, the chair screeching noisily on the laminate floor beneath him. He looks at me one last time before exiting the room, “Bring your new friend next time too, Hanji is eager to meet him.”

I leave angrier and knowing less than I did when I arrived.

* * *

 

 

I try Marco on his cell phone a couple times with no luck. My mind races in a million different directions trying to explain why he isn’t picking up, and to be honest, I’m not exactly being optimistic with the scenarios I’m coming up with.

The bus ride to his house is long and agonizing, and it only occurs to me as I’m knocking on his door that maybe he’s ignoring me. Maybe after our little escapade last night he wants nothing to do with me. Knuckles rap on wood a few times with no response, and I’m fucking _panicking._

The Noctuary burns hot in my back pocket and my arm begins to throb.

“Maybe he’s in the shower.” Eren suggests, as I knock again. One of his neighbors has stuck their head out of their own condo’s door to give me a sour look. I ignore her.

I suck in a startled breath as the door flies open, a frazzled Marco on the other side. There’s the smell of something burning wafting out behind him. “Jean,” He smiles, and any worries of being a bother are erased from my thoughts. “Ah, come in. Sorry I was cooking and, well…” he gestures behind himself, moving aside for us to enter.

I chuckle, and Eren follows me inside. He’s decorated the place nicely, with lots of pictures and cozy furniture. He has a large television and a dining room table. It looks lived-in and well loved, something my place will probably never have. I can't help but think it suits him, though.

“I got your messages, but for whatever reason, it wouldn’t go through when I tried calling you back.” The door shuts behind us with a soft click. “I tried making dinner for us too…” He sighs, clearly having been defeated by whatever it was he was trying to prepare. It’s a real shame too, because I know I could use a proper meal at this point, even if I’m not all that hungry.

We all sit in the living room. Eren and I take spots on the sofa, while Marco sits in a large, brown-leather armchair across from us. His facial expression remains the same, small smile curving his thin lips upwards. He isn’t wearing business attire today, just a simple pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He looks good like this, relaxed. Better.

“Marco, about last night…” My eyes meet his huge, glistening brown ones for a split second before I tear them away. He’s no longer smiling. His whole face has fallen into a state of neutrality. “W-What did you see exactly?”

Leaning forward, arms resting on his knees, he twines his fingers. He doesn’t say anything, but the way he shakes his head and refuses to look me directly in the face tells me more than his words ever could. What could I expect him to say, though? Clearly I didn’t know much more than he did.

“I need you to explain it to me, Marco.” I press on, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt. “Just… what you can.”

“It was a dream.”

“No.”

“I-It couldn’t have been real.”

I reach up and scrub at my face. How are you supposed to explain something like this to someone? Hell, I don’t even fucking know what’s going on, how am I going to help him? “It was real, Marco. I-I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but-“

“Your arm, Jean.” He stutters out, cutting me off. “Oh my god, your arm.”

He moves from his chair, kneeling down in front of me. Looking down I see what he’s talking about. The black spot that was on my palm has grown, morphed into something more heinous and menacing.

The veins on my right arm are raised and swollen, looking like thick ropes underneath my skin. Black and swart in color, they appear ready to burst at any moment. Reaching all the way up to my elbow the darkness fades, and the rest of my veins appear normal.

Marco runs a finger over one of them and man, does it burn. I wince and he retracts his hand. “It hurts?” he asks, brow furrowing. He seems to be confused or concerned or maybe even both. “No,” I lie. There’s a lump forming in the back of my throat, and I’m not exactly sure why.

 The way he looks at me makes me want to squirm. Those big concerned eyes searching my face, I can’t take it. So naturally, I look away.

“Jean, we need to take you to a doctor or… or something,” He pleads.

“Ain’t no doctor that can cure this,” I smile wearily, eyes now focused on a large painting of some flowers he has on his wall. They’re gold and red and I know that I know what they are, but I can’t think of their names. “I jus’ gotta let it spread,” I shrug. “Don’t know where it’ll stop.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Guess we’ll find out.” I’m less than optimistic about the situation, if I’m being totally honest with myself, but I’m not about to lay that on him.

“So where do we go from here?” Eren asks, piping up for the first time since we’d gotten there. “And why can freckles see me now?”

Marco sits back, landing on the floor with a soft thud. He brings his knees up to his chest, and rests his chin on them. His brows knit together. “Why wouldn’t I be able to see you?”

Well, that explains a few things.

“Eren is…” I motion to my less-than-alive friend, “Well he’s, uh…”

“I’m dead,” he says rolling his eyes.

“You have no tact, do you?” I growl, throwing my eyes onto him like daggers.

“We don’t have time for tact.”

“I swear to God Eren, if you weren’t already dead…“

“What would you do, big man?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but…“ Marco’s voice breaks our bickering, both of our attentions snapping back to him. He’s moved again, now on his feet. “I-I’m not sure I understand…”

We order Chinese food and discuss everything. Marco takes it all pretty well, but after last night I doubt any of this is all that shocking. The Noctuary does most of the explaining for me, anyway. What we can read, we do. For the most part it’s a lot of gibberish that none of us understand, in languages we can’t read.

When I suggest going to Hanji and Levi for more help, Eren shoots me down. He says he knows someone who can help us, but we have to wait before we go to him. Marco wants to come with us. We decide to head out first thing in the morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Busy Bee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I knew nothing but shadows and I thought them to be real.”   
> ― Oscar Wilde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well first off I'm super sorry this took me so long to update. It's been almost a month and I have no excuse. Well, I mean I have a job and that's sort of an excuse but I have days off. I'm just lazy.
> 
> It's a little longer than the rest too, so there's that! 
> 
> Anyway, here you go! A chapter with Armin in it. Are you excited? I'm excited. Everyone's excited. Hooray Armin!

I wake up on the couch, Marco draped across my lap, Eren snuggled into my left side. The sliding glass door- leading to what I can only assume is a small balcony- is open just a little, allowing a frigid breeze to sweep the room.

 I shiver, and Marco stirs. There’s something peaceful about all of this, something calming, something _intimate_ in feeling him sleeping so close, with his warm weight pressed against me, and hearing his steady breathing as he settles into sleep again. It should feel strange, being so physically close to somebody I just met, but it doesn’t. Instead it feels, if anything, familiar, liked we’d been here before.

I must still be half-asleep, I think, slightly alarmed by my own thoughts; I’m getting way, _way_ ahead of myself, here. I just met the guy… right? And yet… I can’t _help_ but feel that way around Marco. It’s like…everything in the world is shitty- my life is currently shitty, I have a mysterious disease that may or may not be killing me, a personal ghost-shadow and no idea where my sexual orientation lays on a spectrum of _anything_ \- but when I’m with him, none of it matters. Everything just seems like it’s okay, or that it will be.

I stretch, working the kinks out of my sore back (falling asleep sitting upright had not been my plan), and stifle a yawn. It’s enough to wake sleeping beauty, who’s just as cute in the morning as he is any other time, if not more so.  His thick brown hair is sticking up in every direction possible, so endearingly scruffy that it takes all my self-control not to reach out and ruffle it some more. Instead I just raise an eyebrow at him, a determinedly blank look on my face.

“Ah,” he jumps a little, clearly startled. Wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes as his mouth turns upwards into a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry, I-I must have gotten cold…” He chuckles uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re really warm and, uh…” A faint blush is forming along his cheek bones and I swear to Christ this is the moment I decide that life isn’t fair. It’s not fair that someone like this exists in a world like ours, and it certainly isn’t fair that I can’t call him mine.

I’ve decided I could care less about what my sexuality is. Seeing as it’s not something I’ve put a lot of thought into anyway, why should it matter now? So what if I find another dude to be the most alluring thing I have ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on? So fucking what?  It’s not like he’ll ever reciprocate the feelings. I’m safe if my visions have anything to say about it, anyway.

“Thanks…” I mumble, looking away. I realize belatedly that I just thanked him for complimenting my body heat. “I… I think.” My eyes focus on the portrait he has on the wall once again. Eren begins grumbling and Marco says something about breakfast, but I barely hear any of it. My eyes are scanning every inch of the picture, so sure that it didn’t look that way yesterday.

The bright gold and red of the flowers are now dark grays and blacks, swirling and engulfing each other. A man with only half a face stands in the foreground, black coils for arms and legs, towering over a smaller figure who’s curled up so tightly I can’t see his face. I blink, hoping that it will all go back to normal when I re-open my eyes, but what happens next is far worse than anything I could have expected.

I blink a few times more as black muck starts to ooze from the photograph, and the dark figure grows slowly larger, moving closer and closer to the foreground of the picture, as though he might step through the canvas and into my world at any moment. I scramble backwards to the other side of the couch. I can feel my heart beating in my ears, pounding, frantic. But I can’t move.

“Jean, come on, man!” Hands clasp my shoulders, my neck snaps back and I see Eren leaning over me, his eyebrows knit together, mumbling something about food.

“Are you alright, Jean?” Marco’s smiling face pops out from the kitchen. Eyes wide, hands trembling, I glance back at the portrait. The dark man is gone, flowers in his stead. Red and gold, just as they were yesterday. “Y-yeah…”

Eren looks at me suspiciously, but I flash Marco a small smile and assure him that everything’s fine. “Just a spider or something,” I say, trying to sound sincere, “Really hate ‘em…” He seems to buy it, shooting me an amused little smile and ducking back into the adjacent room.

“What happened?” My ghostly friend whispers, careful not to alert our host of the conversation at hand.

“That picture…” My throat is dry, my voice horse, “It uh, it changed.”

“Changed how?” His brow creases even further, worry setting in.

I close my eyes, trying my hardest to envision what I had just seen. “Muck, lots of that smelly tar stuff. It was spillin’ out of it, and there was this thing…Like a man, but not right…”

Eren nods, eyes drifting back off towards the kitchen. Marco’s humming old show tunes, and something smells great. Not that my mind’s on food at the moment, but man, my stomach sure wouldn’t mind it. Eren removes his hands from my shoulders and floats off to the other room without so much as another word.

Reaching up, I scrub at my eyes with the palms of my hands, wiping away whatever little bit of sleep is left there, and hopefully any remaining crazy that might be lingering.

I glance at the portrait every few moments for the remainder of our visit at Marco’s. It does nothing but leave me with an uneasy feeling now, and I don’t trust it.

 

* * *

 

Marco behaves like the ultimate tour guide as we make our way down main-street. He laughs and points, telling stories about buildings we pass and people neither Eren nor I have ever met. In spite of everything that’s happening, or has happened, this guy is so cheerful. It’s almost contagious. Almost.

I keep my hands stuffed deep down into my hoodie pockets, chuckling and joining in the conversation when I can. Marco reaches around me, and bumps my shoulders a lot when he talks. My heart skips a beat every time he comes into contact with me, and I can’t help but feel like I might fall over if he keeps at it. I keep pace with him though, trying to concentrate more on his stories then how his face looks when he smiles.  My God it’s hard.

Eren floats behind us and I can tell he’s staring at me. I look back once or twice, noticing the smug grin on his face. I swear to God it takes all my self-control not to reel back and hit him right in his mouth. The fact that Marco might be a little upset is the only thing stopping me. That, and I’m sure I’d get locked up for it. It’s not every day you see a guy in downtown Trost fighting a big invisible ball of nothing.

“Here,” Eren instructs, as we approach a small alley. “Down there on the left.”

There are no o businesses down here save for a small sushi place and a flower shop, one directly across from the other. The sushi place is in much worse condition, and in my opinion you’d have to be quite brave to eat there.

A small, dark sign hangs by a broken hinge from the brick building. “Sushi” it says in white (or what I assume was once white) lettering. The doorway is huge and metal, a small, tinted window sitting up towards the top. There is no indication that it’s open, nor any that it’s closed.   “H-here?” I ask uncertainly, reaching for the rusty handle.

“Is that your left?” Eren sighs, pointing to a door just a little further down the way, “Because I don’t think it’s _my_ left. Is it _your_ left Marco?”

Marco laughs, and I scowl. “Fuck you guys,” I grumble, pushing past them. For fuck’s sake, I just assumed it would be the creepy-ass building. With everything that’s been happening why the fuck would we be going into the cute little flower shop? Give a guy a break.

I hold open the glass door as Eren approaches. “Assholes first,” I mumble, quirking a brow. He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he wants to. Instead he just rolls his eyes and floats past me. Marco mumbles a sincere thank you as he goes by and I swear I can actually feel my heart flutter. God, why’s he gotta be so perfect? It’s really fucking me up here. I don’t have time for this shit.

I have a world to save (potentially), and a fucking ghost disease eating away at my bloodstream. I don’t need a god damned heart condition too.

The place is large and bright, and unique. It’s probably the most interesting shop I’ve ever been in, if I’m being honest. When you first walk in you’re smacked in the face with the smell of fresh flower, but it’s not too much to stomach. In fact, it’s sorta nice. The place is growing, and I mean that literally. Flowers are absolutely everywhere, covering most of the walls, shelves, and windows. Plants and vines hang overhead, too huge to ever be removed from the store, and to the untrained eye, nothing seems to be in any sort of order. Eren assures us this isn’t the case though.

“Honey, I’m _home_ ,” he calls out, a laugh lingering on the last word.

A short blond woman appears from behind a bush. Her features are harsh, and she looks less than pleased to see us. Eren rolls his eyes, and she walks right past him. Her deep blue eyes linger on me for just a moment before she pushes by, her shoulder colliding with my own. “Hey, what the hell…?” I grumble, feeling like I’ve just been hit with a bag of bricks. I move my hand up to rub at the collision spot. What. A. **Bitch**.

“Armin,” She calls out flatly, leaning against the small counter. I can see her reflection in the glass doors of the flower refrigerator. Her expression doesn’t change. We all just stare, Marco included, until a short blonde boy bustles into the room. He’s carrying a large plant, almost as big as he is.

Eren lets out a hoot of laughter, and I swear the kid rolls his eyes at us. “This is the biggest fern anyone has ever ordered from here,” he smiles, placing it down on the counter. “I sure do hope you guys have a big enough table for it.”

“Should be fine,” the young woman mumbles, placing a jet-black credit card down onto the counter.

“Oh, I only take cash,” the boy sighs, pointing at the register. It has to be a hundred years old, vintage in every way. “I hope that’s okay?” She shrugs, producing a small wad of money from her front pocket. “Keep the change.”

She lifts the large plant without appearing to exert even the smallest amount of effort, and leaves the store. The boy taps away at large, mechanical buttons, and the register dings. He takes all the change and puts it into a small jar under the counter with the word “Bees” scribbled in black sharpie across the front.

“That’s his bee jar,” Eren explains, kicking up his heels. He’s floating on his back now, arms behind his head.  “People give him tips and he plants bee-friendly flowers on the roof.”

“That’s because they’re endangered,” the blonde explains patiently, making his way over to us. He’s wearing a light blue button up and a green smock that boasts the words “Busy Bees Flower Shop” across the front. His name tag says “Armin.”

He smiles at Eren, who grins back in return, and I can’t help but feel like we’re intruding on something by the way they’re looking at each other. I should comment on the bee thing, or maybe even the rude girl, but I don’t. No, my mind goes somewhere else entirely and I’m suddenly pissed.

“Who _can’t_ see you?!” I groan, throwing my hands up into the air. I’m done. So fucking done. Marco places a hand on my shoulder, and it steadies me a bit. “I thought I had to help you because no one else could see you?”

Eren looks confused for a moment, and then he laughs, and it’s not just a chuckle. No, this fucking kid lets out with a full bellied roar.  “I never said that….” He points out, sobering a little. Ugh, I wanna hit him. I make a mental note to punch him as hard as I can once we’re alone.

“Well, I-“ I start to argue, but I realize he’s telling me the truth. He never technically _said_ I was the only one who could see him. “Why me then?”  

He blinks, as if confused by the question. “Because Levi said it had to be you.”

“I think we should go to my office,” Armin offers, brushing a golden lock back behind one of his ears. His suggestion- and the realization that I’m arguing with a ghost in a _flower shop_ , of all places- has sufficiently defused the situation, and though miffed, I’m pretty calm. “It’s just back there,” He quips, jerking a thumb over his right shoulder.

The office is huge and dark and filled with books, almost the complete opposite of the shop. It smells of leather and worn paper. I slump into a large leather armchair, and pull off my beanie. This had better be good.

Armin sits on the other side of a large mahogany desk, and smiles. “I’m so glad Eren finally brought you,” he says, pulling out a yellow pad and pen. “I can only assume this means you have the Noctuary?”

I nod. Apparently everyone has been clued in except for me, and maybe Marco, who’s off in the corner inspecting a stack of large leather books.

“Uh, so you know about it?” I ask, leaning forward. My eyes are still scanning the room, taking in the high ceilings and overwhelming amount of literature.

Marco lets out a little yelp as one of the books lets out a growl. I whip around in my seat to see what he’s doing. “Don’t mind that,” Armin calls, “He’s just a little hungry.”

“It’s a …a book…” Marco says slowly, as if he doesn’t quite believe what he’s just heard. Hell, I’m not sure _I_ believe it. The book, which is now scurrying back to its stack, lets out another low groan and the freckled man steps away, coming to stand just behind me.

“It is,” Armin laughs, “But it’s a … _special_ book.” He directs his bright blue eyes back to me. They look like the ocean, ferocious and deep, yet calming and cool all at once. I can’t help but feel like there’s more to this guy than meets the eye.

“So uh, the Noctuary…” I continue, shaking my head. This was all just a little too much.  “How do you know it?”

“Know it?” He hums lightly, tapping the pen on the paper. There’s a moment where he looks thoughtful, and then even concerned, but both of these constitutions pass rather quickly, and a polite smile takes their place. “How much do _you_ know about it, Jean?”  

There isn’t much I can say to the blonde, though he’s more than grateful that I’ve brought the book with me. Eager hands and hungry eyes flip and pour over pages as we all sit in silence. I’m bored, that’s for sure, but neither Marco nor Eren seem to mind. I look around some more, counting all the red books, and then the blue ones, and then eventually all of the ones I think look like they might try to jump out and eat my face if I were going to try and read them.

“I’m fuckin’ hungry,” I mumble after what seems like a small eternity. Armin jumps, eyes wide. It looks as though I’ve scared him.

“We can certainly get some food…” he mumbles, closing the book. His polite smile returns to his face as he looks the three of us over once again. “Do you all like sushi?”

 

* * *

 

 

I was right all along. We _did_ end up in the sketchy-ass sushi restaurant.

On the inside it’s not as scary. Well, the décor isn’t. The guests are a whole different story.

I slink down into the seat of a booth. Armin requested the corner, so we have a pretty good view of the whole place. Everything is black or red with silver accents. It has a very modern feel to it, but it still feels _wrong,_ somehow. Like it’s not supposed to be here.

The walls are covered in art, if that’s even what you could consider it; paintings of large beasts, each with only one eye. I try my best not to spend too much time thinking about them. Large, interesting floral arrangements are the only other adornments. I wonder if Armin sells them these.

We’re about the most normal bunch in the room. None of us are sporting tails, or horns or even an unnecessary amount of fur. I mean, sure, Eren’s Dead and all but that’s nothing compared to what I’m looking at here. We’re talking some wolf-man meets the deepest recesses of Hell kinda stuff.

A tall, dark-haired girl with small nubs sticking from her forehead appears at the end of our booth without much warning. I jump a little when she clears her throat. “Hello,” she sighs, “My name’s Ymir, what can I… Oh, hey Armin. What’s up?” She pulls a small pad and pen from the pocket of her apron, looking about as pleased as her tone, which isn’t very. “You guys gonna get the usual today or…?”

Armin nods, holding up four fingers. “Enough for everyone please. Nothing too exciting on the drinks though,” he chuckles, “We’re in mortal company.”

She looks Marco and myself over, and I stare at her nubs. They appear to be bone, black where they connect to her skull, but white as they get further away.

“See somethin’ you like, pony boy?” She asks, quirking a brow. Ah yes, a jab at my long face. ‘Cause that’s _so_ new and original.

“Just wondering what the fuck is on your head, _sweetheart._ ” I manage, straightening in my seat. Marco places a hand on my thigh and all thoughts of starting a fight vanish. If it had been just a little closer to my knee, I might not have given it a thought, but his warm palm on my upper thigh…I wiggle away a little uncomfortably.

Ymir sighs, “Yeah, I’ll be right back.” I stick my tongue out after her. She flips me off over her shoulder.

“Horns,” Armin laughs, “They’re horns, Jean.”

I shrug, pretending not to care. It’s not like she’s the scariest thing in this place. My eyes drift back off to a man who looks as though he could pass for a Wolf-man stunt double. Apparently everyone at the table notices. Even Marco giggles.

“What is this place, anyway?” My freckled friend asks, removing his hand from my leg. I’m mostly grateful. Mostly. The smallest- okay maybe not the _smallest_ , but definitely not the _biggest_ \- part of me wants him to put it back.

“Well…” Eren starts this time and Marco leans forward, eyes focused and intent. “It’s a bar. But it’s not…”

“It’s not in our world.” Armin quips, helpfully. Eren nods. “When we walked through that door, well, we entered a different plane of existence.” He folds his hands neatly on the table in front of him. “The people here are different as well. _I’m_ different, _you’re_ different.  We all exist in both places, all of the guests that come here, and us of course. This place, besides the door of course, only exists here. In this realm…”

Marco nods, wide smile illuminating his face. “But why can _we_ come here? And who can’t?”

It’s a great question, one I might have asked myself if I wasn’t trying to figure out the exact distance I would need to go before I scooted too close to my crush. “It’s simple really. Eren’s, well, he’s dead.” Armin explains, “And Jean’s got the sickness, and you, well, I suppose it’s because of something that’s happened recently. Have you had any near death experiences lately?”

“I-I don’t think so.” He looks thoughtful, concerned even. Ymir returns, placing tall glasses of yellowish-green liquid in front of each of us.

“Poison?” I ask, eyeing the beverages suspiciously.  

“Mountain Dew,” she sighs, turning on her heel.  “Moron.”

I roll my eyes. Right. Weird alternate plane has Pepsi products. Got it.

Armin and Marco continue to talk about all sorts of weird science crap. Alternate dimensions, time travel, planes of existence; it’s like an episode of Doctor Who up in here. I’m still watching the other patrons when our less-than-friendly waitress returns with the food. She says it’s on the house. Apparently Armin had done them some sort of huge favor. She mentions something about flowers and a death God…I stopped listening when I noticed Marco staring at me.

“What?” I ask. I’m suddenly very conscious of the fact that there might be something weird on my face.

“Nothing,” he grins, mouth curving upwards, causing his dimples to deepen. “Just admiring that scowl of yours.”

I roll my eyes again, trying my best to seem confident and funny. Two things I’m not the best at. “And this” I motion to my face, “Could all be yours for the low, low price of absolutely nothing,” I joke, hoping to any God that will listen that he at least chuckles.  

Instead he says “Okay,” and scoots a little closer to me. “I think I can afford that.” His eyes are doing the thing again. The twinkle in the light thing- the thing that makes me want to reach out and embrace him right here and now. I suck in s short breath, resisting.

And just like that, everything around us is gone. It’s just him and I and I can feel the heat swelling in my face, coming at me in white-hot waves. How do you even respond to that? I chuckle nervously, hand instantly going to the back of my neck. Which, of course, is on fire.

He’s looking at me expectantly and just as I’m about to say something (dumb, I’m sure),  Eren saves me, and for once I don’t want to smack him just for speaking.

“I said, Armin is a book-keeper,” He looks between us. Marcos chuckling a little to himself, but he’s returned his attention to our friends. I’m still recovering, my heart about ready to burst from my chest. Surely my freckled counter-part had just been joking, right? Right? “They keep records, logs of different things. He’s a neutral force. Here for everyone’s aide.” He continues, popping a piece of sushi into his mouth.

Apparently this is a place where ghosts can eat as well. Who’d have thunk it?

Marco and I sit extremely close for the rest of our time at the restaurant, but I’m not complaining. He’s more than welcome to get as close to me as he wants, anytime he wants. Unfortunately, I’m sure he has no interest in me, so I push any thoughts of romantic interest to the back of my mind. That’s not why we’re here anyway.

On our way out, Armin mentions that he’d like to see Levi and Hanji. He asks if we’d like to join him. Marco’s the first to agree to go, and he and Eren begin talking about how nice the long train ride out there is. I’m less than enthused, but it’s probably for the best that we tag along.

Plus, I got a bone to pick with that midget bastard.

After all, he’s the one who dragged me into all this.

Man, do I need a cigarette…

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So basically this is going to be a little slow moving and the chapters are gonna be sort of short but it's what I got. Feel free to leave me some comments telling me what you think, I'd love to hear it!


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